Dark Alliance

“Not straight out. I just guessed it had to do with her current investigation. Something about illegal weapons dealing in Colombia. I told her she was on pretty thin ice with something like that. Those people do not play nice.” Sebring stared hard at Bolan, trying to read his thoughts. “Jesus, is she hurt? Missing?”

“Looks that way. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did Maggie leave anything with you? Send you anything?”

Sebring sat upright, color draining from his face. He pushed up out of his chair and crossed the office, sliding open a drawer in a filing cabinet. He took out a small padded envelope.

“This arrived the other day. Never gave it much thought. Maggie’s always sending me stuff to hold for her. She isn’t much of an organizer.”

Sebring offered the envelope to Bolan. He checked the postmark. It had been sent four days ago. Mailed from upstate Florida. He tore the sealing strip and tipped the contents out on Sebring’s desk. There were two items. A digital camera memory card and a computer flash drive.

“I wonder what’s on them,” Sebring said.

“I’ll know when I read them.”

“No, you won’t,” someone said.

The Executioner turned and saw a broad-shouldered man in light pants and a colorful shirt. The thug had long black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and a taut, angular face. There was a large pistol in the man’s hand. It had a sound suppressor screwed on to it and the muzzle was pointing at Bolan. Behind the gunman was a second guy, dark and squat. He had Sebring’s receptionist held tight against him, one hand clamped over her mouth, his other arm around her waist.

“Just give me the pieces,” the gunman said.

Sebring exploded with anger. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The man didn’t blink. He shifted the muzzle of the pistol and fired. The slug smashed into Sebring’s left shoulder, knocking the surprised photographer backward.

Bolan swiveled from the waist, his right forearm sweeping around to catch the shooter’s arm and deflect the pistol. Continuing the swift move Bolan brought his left arm up and circled the gunman’s wrist. He trapped the arm beneath his own, clamping it to his side, swung hard and hauled the man off balance. Bolan grabbed for the pistol, twisting it brutally, snapping the finger still inside the trigger guard. The gunman let out a shout of pain and dropped the pistol. Bolan pivoted, the point of his right elbow thudding hard into the man’s face. His nose broke under the impact. Blood began to gush from his nostrils. Bolan grabbed the man’s hair and pulled his head forward and down. His rising knee met the gunman’s forehead. The impact sent him reeling across the office, moaning, his hands clutched to his smashed face. Bolan spotted the dropped gun and scooped it up.

Satisfied that the man was out of action Bolan turned in the direction of the second intruder who was still holding Sebring’s receptionist. The stocky man seemed stunned to see his downed partner curled up on the floor of the office. He turned his attention back to Bolan, now holding the pistol and closing the distance between them with speed. In a split second decision he released the receptionist, pushing her at Bolan, then turned and ran for the exit.

As the Executioner strode through the reception area he was only a couple of steps behind the fleeing figure. He raced through the door and caught the man at the top of the exterior steps. The man half turned in Bolan’s direction as he sensed his pursuer’s close proximity. His hand came out of his pocket to reveal a knife. The Executioner slammed the pistol across the side of the man’s face. The blow was delivered hard, opening a raw gash. The thug squealed, an odd, high-pitched sound, and dropped the knife. The squeal trailed off as Bolan hit him a second time. The man stepped back, trying to avoid the blow. He moved too far and stepped over the edge of the top step. He tumbled down the steps, turning over a couple of times before hitting the bottom where he lay motionless.

Bolan returned to Sebring’s office. He found the photographer slumped on the floor beside his desk, a bloody hand clutched to his shoulder. The receptionist was on the phone, calling for assistance. When she saw the gun in Bolan’s hand her eyes widened in alarm.

He put the gun away. “Take it easy,” he said. “I’m on your side.”

He crossed to check the gunman. The man was still clutching his face, moaning softly. Then he went back to Sebring. The photographer, pale-faced and sweating, glanced up at the Executioner.

“You always bring guests to the party?” he asked.

“Never invited ones,” Bolan said grimly.

“Next time, Cooper, just bring a bottle.”

The receptionist put the phone down. “Police and ambulance are on their way.”

Bolan turned to her. “Got any towels we can use to stop the bleeding?”

The young woman nodded and left the office.

“This has to do with Maggie?” Sebring asked.

Bolan took the items from the envelope and dropped them into his pocket. He glanced at Sebring. The photographer sensed what Bolan was silently asking and gave a brief nod.

The receptionist came back with some towels. She helped Bolan get Sebring into his chair. The Executioner wadded one of the towels and placed it over the wound.

“Hold that in place, miss.”

She nodded and said, “The name’s Carrie.”

“Just keep good pressure on that towel, Carrie.”

Bolan crossed to the door, taking out his phone. He punched in his contact number for Brognola. When the big Fed answered Bolan calmly explained what had happened.

“I can’t walk out until Miami P.D. arrive. There’s one perp on the floor and another outside the building. I won’t leave and put these people in the way of further harm.”

“When they arrive let me speak to the head honcho. I’ll square things,” Brognola said.

“Thanks.”

“Any good going to come out of this?” Brognola asked.

“I don’t know yet but tell Bear to get ready because I’m going to send him some information.”

“Okay. Get back to me for your get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Ten minutes later the office was a busy place. Police and paramedics vied for space. Sebring was given treatment prior to hospital transport to have the bullet removed from his shoulder. The gunman Bolan had put down was cuffed before his own ride for treatment. He’d said nothing, mostly due to the fact that his jaw was shattered and his nose badly crushed. The second attacker had vanished by the time the cops arrived. He had left blood behind on the concrete at the bottom of the steps but he’d disappeared. Carrie sat on a chair in one corner of the office, absently rubbing at the bloodstains on her dress but physically unharmed.

The Executioner stood to one side, waiting while the cop in charge had his conversation with Brognola. The cop ended the call and returned Bolan’s phone to him.

“Looks like you’re off the hook, Agent Cooper,” he said amiably.

Lieutenant Gary Loomis was a lean, tanned cop in his thirties. His boyish face belied the things he had seen during his tenure with the Miami-Dade force. Despite the heat he wore a suit and tie. He stood in front of Bolan, hands on his hips, studying the big man.

“So what brought you to Sebring’s office again?” the cop asked.

“Just following up on information received,” Bolan recited. “An ongoing investigation. Sebring was pegged to answer a couple of questions. He isn’t a suspect.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Loomis said. “Need to know and all that crap.”

“Sorry, Loomis. If I could tell you more I would.”

Loomis grinned. “Hell, don’t sweat it. I got enough local crime to keep me busy. Last thing I need is another pile of paperwork to wade through. That yahoo you gave us is going to use up a whole tree’s worth of forms by the time we get him processed.”

“Any idea who he is?”

Loomis shook his head. “Maybe when we run his prints we’ll get lucky.”

“I’d appreciate hearing about anything you turn up.”

Loomis handed Bolan a card. “Call me.”